Sun, Mar 9th - 3:27AM
I quite liked the TV show Catweazle, so when the girls here decided to call the most unpopular, uncharismatic, unfriendly, manky looking bloke in the stables Catweazle, I was mildly surprised.
He managed in the time he was with us to thoroughly ruffle the feathers of all our birds (lasses, girls, young ladies, or even the mature ones). Finally he turned downright nasty and went for the kids of one the clients. Bye bye, Catweazle.
When he first came to us, in a hurry to leave his last stable – ‘cos he’d been chucked out, as we later found out, eyebrows were raised. But we are a tolerant lot, live and let live; as long as everyone behaves.
His horse, a nice looking warmblood, had an extremely nervous disposition and she was pitifully thin. He looked like a sack of potatoes on her, there were a few near misses in the arena, as he was barely able to steer the horse. Other riders gave him a wide berth. He remedied this by fastening the mare’s head with side reins. I remedied the thinness of the animal by giving her more to eat than the handful of manufactured dust and muck that her owner put in little buckets for us to feed her. Sometimes he didn’t show up for days on end, which proved beneficial for the horse’s temperament. She was quite placed in the end.
Every now and again his nasty temper got the better of him. One day a stable door was left half open. We have American style barns housing from 6 to 20 horses in each section. His horse at that time was in the smallest barn, the passageway is quite narrow. If a stable door is left half open, you cannot pass by without either fully opening or closing the door.
What does Catweazle do? He walks straight into the door, banging his nose and forehead badly. The offending open door was not his stable, but one the Spice Girls. And now the screaming match started: “You silly bitch”, “Use your eyes, you have four” (he wears glasses), “Stupid cow”, “Say that again and I’ll smash your face in”. The conversation, if you could call it that, further deteriorated.
Actually it was my husband who had left the blasted door open in the first place, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways while these two were at it.
We had sessions like these about every 2 months, always with another of the girls. They had a list going: “Who hasn’t had a run in with Catweazle.”
One Saturday afternoon we were raking the sawdust out of the corners in the arena, Catweazle arrived, in a bad mood as usual, and started calling two of the kids helping us the most awful names. Their mother, a former prostitute (more of her later) turned around, pulled herself up to full height and started marching towards him. All work stopped as everyone turned to witness the latest spectacle. “One more f...ing word out of your f...ing mouth and I’ll break every f...ing bone in your f...ing body, you f...ing b.....d“
And yes, Germans do know and use the f word.
The little runt realised he was in trouble and made for the door. We asked him to leave after that.
In the meantime he has again been chucked out of the stables he moved to. Verbal abuse, I hear.